Andrew couldn't do this to her! Surely not, not after all this time. Not that she'd ever expected anything . . . like this. She felt her chest begin to tighten with the stress of it all and told herself to calm down. Passing out would not help the situation. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before sitting down again. She closed her eyes for a moment and considered whether or not she needed to take a pill. Another breath, and no, she was okay, no medication required. She opened her eyes and looked around the room, the bland stares from the lawyers who'd seen it all before, the nasty, pointed stares from Rachael and Miranda, the angry yet still sleazy look from Denis that made her vaguely nauseous. Actually, now that the other guy had left, Kitty thought, there was no reason for her to hang around either.
She turned to one of the lawyers. "Can you give me—" What was that guy's name again? – "Greg's contact details? I'll try to speak to him again about this."
He pushed a folded up piece of paper across the table to her and Kitty shoved it in her purse without looking.
"I must warn you Ms Brecht, that these conditions are binding. Unless you both agree to meet them within the next seven days, the trust for the PRC will be revoked."
"A week," Kitty muttered. "Great." She got up, grabbed her Tiffany bag, stuffed the keys House had tipped out back into the manila envelope and put it under her arm. Somehow, she'd convince him to make this happen, and then the properties would be his. And if he didn't want them – as it appeared he didn't – then she'd take them and they'd make wonderful fundraising auction items.
"I'd say it's been nice to see you again, but it hasn't," Kitty said.
No one bothered to say anything in return, simply amped up their evil stares instead. Kitty had never understood Andrew's family. Of course, she knew they had every reason not to like her, but she'd never known them to like anyone. No wonder Andrew had to find company elsewhere.
As she walked to the elevator, the young woman who'd shown her into the room and been sympathetic about her transport difficulties sidled up to her.
"Ms Brecht? If you want to go back to Princeton, you could catch a lift with Mr Barnes's son. That might give you a chance to talk to him about all this too," she added sympathetically. "He's just gone down to the basement to collect the Mercedes. If you're quick you'll probably catch him."
Mr Barnes's son? Kitty belated realised that she hadn't given any thought to why the guy had been in the room in the first place, too caught up in trying to pretend that Andrew's family's glares were having no effect on her. So he was the illegitimate son that Andrew used to talk about so wistfully. The only woman he'd ever really loved, he'd confessed, secure enough to know that Kitty wouldn't be hurt by that.
Kitty had reams of material that could shatter that family, but no matter what they did, she'd always determined to maintain the high ground, to stay true to the promises she'd made to Andrew, to only behave in ways she knew would allow herself to sleep at night. But, half a million dollars a year. She bounced on her heels as she repeatedly hit the "B" button, praying for the elevator to move more quickly. The difference that money could make – the research that it could fund – Kitty knew she had to do whatever she could to secure it.
When she reached the basement she wandered around for a moment, her heels echoing loudly throughout the concrete bunker. Finally she found him, walking a slow circle around a wine-red Mercedes convertible, a blissful expression on his face. In fact, she couldn't help but smile as she looked at him, his expression was so incongruent: the grin of a five-year old on Christmas morning on the face of someone quite considerably older. And he walked with a cane – she had been too distracted earlier to notice. She filed that piece of information away, sure it would help her case later.
He'd have to be close to fifty, Kitty guessed, remembering the timeframes Andrew had alluded to. Around ten years older than herself, but he looked good for his age. Scruffy but attractive, his body in good shape; he hadn't even bothered to put on a tie for something most people would consider to be a formal occasion. And he was a doctor? From Princeton? Not one she'd ever met, and Kitty prided herself on her knowledge of Princeton's medical community. She'd schmoozed, entertained and cajoled just about every doctor in the county at one fundraiser or another. Sometimes it felt as if that was all she did with her life: work all day at the office, then pretend to have fun at some gala dinner every night.
"Pretty nice, huh?" he called to her, without turning from his admiration of the vehicle in front him.
Kitty was initially startled, but then realised it wasn't remotely possible he hadn't heard her approach, her shoes could probably be heard on the next floor down. "Pretty nice," she agreed.
"Why did you follow me?"
Kitty decided to be direct. "I need a lift back to Princeton. I heard that's where you're headed"
At that he turned to face her, one eyebrow arched in curiosity. "You want a lift?" She didn't miss his disbelieving tone.
"Yes. And I thought perhaps we could talk along the way. About Andrew's bequest to the foundation. Whether we might find some way to make it work."
"Forget it," he said dismissively, turning from her and heading for the driver's door.
Kitty sagged, his tone was so decisive. She suddenly realised she was too tired to keep fighting. Ever since the lawyer had appeared in Kitty's office, she hadn't been able to sleep: trying to decide whether or not to attend the will reading and tortured by memories of her time with Andrew, both the pleasant and the unpleasant. Occasionally very unpleasant. And now, after enduring the reception she'd got from his family, the strange bequest, the sheer emotional exhaustion of the day, she was shattered. She wondered how she'd even manage to get herself back to the train station.
The engine turned over and a low thrumming growl filled the basement. He revved the engine a couple of times experimentally, that childish grin back on his face again as he looked up at her from behind the steering wheel.
"Aren't you getting in?" he asked.
Kitty frowned. Hadn't he said, forget it?
"I thought you—"
He interrupted. "There's no way I'm working at your foundation, or whatever the hell it is. But driving home in a convertible with a hot blonde chick by my side? That I'm totally up for. Get in."
Kitty wasn't sure whether to feel complimented or offended. In the end she laughed, because what it really made her feel was nostalgic. A long time ago she'd had fun and had found a life with a man who'd said similarly inappropriate things.
She opened the door, jumped in, and threw her purse, the Tiffany bag and the manila envelope on the floor around her feet.
"How fast can we go?" she asked cheekily.
Instead of answering, he gunned the engine, spinning the tyres as they sped up the ramp of the basement. Kitty let out a little squeal of glee.
-
-
Once they were on the freeway and House had got the hang of the powerful engine, he settled back to enjoy the comfort of the leather seats. He'd stopped taking long drives a while ago because he'd found his leg couldn't take extended periods in the car. But so far so good. Perhaps it said more about his car than his leg.
He hadn't spoken to Kitty much except to share complaints about the traffic in New York and comments about the car. They had the top down and the wind rushing past and the traffic meant it was a little noisy for conversation anyway. She seemed content to sit there, her hair blowing back, watching the scenery go by.
However it had started to cloud over and – not wanting to risk his precious new leather upholstery – House decided that was as good an excuse as any to put the top down and start a conversation. He pulled over to a rest stop and pressed the button that returned the soft top over them. He watched the mechanism with quiet awe, silently praising German engineering.
They were back on the road in less than a minute.
"So, I'm guessing you're not another illegitimate child," House said by way of opening the conversation.
"No."
House wasn't deterred by the brusque answer.
"I noticed that you're not overly protective of that Tiffany bag," he said, nodding towards the blue and white bag sitting on the floor of the car. She'd carefully tucked other things under the seat to be sure they couldn't blow away when they'd picked up speed on the freeway. The Tiffany bag she'd left in a precarious spot, but House had decided if she didn't care about it, then he wouldn't either.
"I don't especially care about it."
"What is it?"
She shrugged.
"You haven't opened it?" House was a little astonished. From what he knew of the feminine mystique, for most women simply recalling that shade of blue could induce hypertension.
"I can guess what's inside."
"Seems it's the day for games," House muttered and although his eyes were on the road, he didn't miss the sharp look she gave him. "Okay, so guess, then open it, and we'll see if you're right."
"Solitaire diamond earrings," she said promptly.
"Go on," House encouraged.
With a small sigh, Kitty picked up the bag, opened it and pulled out a black case tied up with white ribbon. She undid the ribbon, opened the case, and turned it to House after barely a glance.
He nodded, she was right. "Nice," House said. He knew a little about diamonds. Not a lot, but enough to know that these stones would have to be at least two carats each, and enough to know that they wouldn't really suit her. They were too big and flashy. She'd look better with something smaller, more delicate, perhaps with a little drop to them. No, these earrings said more about the giver than the receiver. They were earrings designed to indicate ownership. Why a dead man should give a gift like that was the intriguing thing.
"Yes, they're beautiful," Kitty agreed without any emotion to her voice.
"But you don't like them."
"Not particularly," she admitted.
"And you can't sell them."
"No," She sighed. "Andrew always was a little bossy."
"And flashy."
"Did you know him well?" Kitty narrowed her eyes at him and House wondered if it was because what he'd said was off the mark or accurate.
"No, I never really met him. He was around occasionally when I was a child, but then my family moved and I didn't see him again until recently."
"You were with him before he died?" Kitty turned to him in the car seat, her eyes brimming with curiosity. "How was he? I mean, I know he was sick, but was he . . . ?" She trailed off, seemingly unsure how to phrase what she wanted to know.
House shook his head. "No, I wasn't with him. He came to my father's funeral – it must have been before the cancer recurred. My other father. My mother's husband," he stumbled, trying to make the relationships clear.
"He was there and you didn't talk to him? Did you know then that he was your real dad?"
"Yes. I've known for a while."
"And you didn't talk to him?" Kitty seemed incredulous.
"Well, it was my father's funeral," House protested, knowing that it did seem strange, and unable to explain his lack of curiosity at the time. "It would have been rude."
"Something tells me that's never stopped you before."
"What?"
"Let's just say I hardly know you, but already I can tell that you take after your father in more ways than you imagine."
"How did you know him? I mean, I'm assuming you knew him in the biblical sense. Which, by the way, I imagine would have required a serious little-blue-pill supply."
As the words left his mouth, House suddenly realised that he really was in the middle of one of the most surreal moments of his life: driving his dead biological father's car while talking to a woman who was more than likely that man's ex-mistress. A woman he had to admit he found extremely attractive. There was something slightly disturbing and creepy about the whole thing, but House felt powerless to resist it. The game had been set in motion now, and he had no choice but to play his part. Not that he was going to agree to being Chairman of whatever ridiculous charity it was that she headed. The New Jersey Protectors of Rejected Cats or whatever the hell it was would just have to get by without him.
But the blonde next to him was one feline he wanted to know more about.
"We were friends," Kitty answered stiffly, turning back to look straight out the windshield.
"Friends," House sneered. "Right."
"Friends," Kitty insisted.
"Friends? Like 'play a round of golf on Sunday' friends? Or 'play a round of hide-the-sausage-while-my-wife's-away' friends?"
Kitty made a strangled noise of protest.
"I'd bet it's more the sausage-variety friends," House continued. "You don't normally shop at Tiffany's for your golf buddies. Unless you—"
"I loved him, is that what you want to know?" Kitty suddenly yelled. "He saved me, he took care of me, and I loved him. He didn't love me, but that was okay. We gave each other things we couldn't get from anywhere else. Is that what you wanted to know?" She turned away from him and stared out the window.
House couldn't see her face properly, but he could see the tense set of her jaw, the way her hands were clenched into fists, her chest rising and falling quickly. She was very angry and very upset. He was fascinated by her reaction and also by his own. He felt an urge to reach out his arm and wrap it around her, to let her cry on his shoulder, comfort her. It wasn't something he'd experienced in a very long time.
"He saved you?" House asked, deliberately keeping his tone mild and his eyes on the road ahead.
The colour on Kitty's cheeks deepened and House realised that she probably hadn't meant to let that piece of information out. He filed it in the back of his mind for further examination later, but for now went back to safer topics.
"I'm also betting from the reactions I saw today that you're not exactly on great terms with his family."
"You could say that," Kitty muttered, clearly trying to pull herself together after her outburst.
"Were you with him when he died?"
"I haven't seen Andrew for five years. Our . . . relationship," she seemed reluctant to use the word, House noted, ". . . ended almost ten years ago."
"Really?" House was puzzled. A man didn't normally give expensive bequests to a mistress he'd stopped boinking a decade earlier. Not to mention the whole fact that there must have been a forty-year age difference between Andrew and Kitty. Sure, some people got off on that, but it was undeniably unusual. There was something more going on with the whole thing; something he was dying to get to the bottom of.
They were silent for a while until finally Kitty made a big show of looking up at the sky from the window.
"It's clearing up," she said quietly.
"Yeah."
"So, can we put the top down again?"
House was sure she was asking only in order to put a halt to easy conversation, but he wasn't sure what his next move should be anyway. So he pulled over to the next rest stop and flicked the switch to put the top down again.
"Have you tried out the stereo yet?" Kitty asked, reaching over to play with the buttons as House pulled back out onto the freeway.
"No, but it's Harman/Kardon, it's gonna rock."
Kitty leaned close to the speakers to listen while she played with the radio dial. Finally she sat back with a satisfied smile. "This is one of my favourite songs," she said, before cranking up the volume.
The Cranberries' song, Dreams, blasted out of the speakers, almost deafening above the rush of the wind and the traffic. "Oh my life, it's changing every day, in every possible way…" the Irish balladeers sang. Kitty sang with them, under her breath.
House couldn't help but smile. It was a good song. The sun was shining. Hell, if he didn't know better, he'd call this feeling . . . happiness.
He started working on a scheme to explain a detour to the hospital. He couldn't wait to pull this baby into the parking lot. Both of them. He just needed to make sure Wilson was watching somehow. House grinned to himself just imagining the look on Wilson's face. That'd be worth the five hundred bucks alone. A convertible and a hot blonde. Some inheritance!